


Three O'Clock In the Morning

by ExpectoPatronum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, Sherlock is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpectoPatronum/pseuds/ExpectoPatronum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It always seems to hit him hardest at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three O'Clock In the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first real fic I've written in years, and I'm posting it before I lose my nerve. Unbeta'd, because it was written as the title suggests! I hope you like it!

“Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o’clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

 

It always seems to hit him hardest at night.  
  
By day, John is as he always was. He works at the clinic, diagnosing chest colds and runny noses and the minor malaise of the general public. He smiles at the pretty girl who hands him his coffee at the shop in the afternoons. He walks from Point A to Point B, military posture, limpless, eyes clear and open and politely intent. He picks up the takeaway, packs the leftovers up to live in the fridge, removes the rotting melon slices despite the tacked-on note which pleas: _COULD BE USEFUL! Do not bin, John!_ He accompanies Sherlock on the ever-more-frequent cases across London and beyond, heart racing, hands steady.

He feels fine. He is not bothered by the sympathetic eyes of his co-workers as they avoid assigning him any patients with children. His gaze does not linger too long on the rosy cheeks of the infants in their prams at at the shops, or the proud smiles of their mothers as they push them along. He does not miss the gentle weight of his wedding ring any more than he misses the well-intentioned queries of strangers who used to ask after his wife, before he had tucked it away for safe-keeping.

Every night is the same. He keeps himself busy; pecking away at the keyboard of his laptop with two fingers, the final touches on another case write-up, or an email to his sister. He waits until the moment his eyelids begin to droop, til the words on the screen begin to blur and the spaces between his words are filled not with thoughts, but the gentle floaty feeling that precedes sleep.  
  
He snaps his laptop shut. Sets it on his nightstand. Retreats to his pillow. Closes his eyes.  
  
He does not sleep.  
  
It always seems to begin in his midsection. A sudden wave of nausea that laps at his insides like high tide, spreading his ribs and spilling up into his chest and throat. He swallows. Inhale, two...three.... Exhale, four...five...six.

He sees Mary, pale and still on her white sheets.

He sees his daughter.  
  
Inhale, two...three.... Exhale, four...five...six.  
  
However hard he tries to manage his breathing, he cannot prevent the occasional hitch. Cannot stop the choked noise in his throat as he rolls over onto his side to relieve the pressure in his sinuses, closed eyes dripping, nose stinging. Cannot hide from Sherlock.

He never hears him coming - his ears are full of a steady buzz like white noise, radio interference, a heart machine on flatline.  
  
Behind him, the mattress dips down, sheets rustling, springs creaking rhythmically in a parody of lovemaking. If he could breathe, he would smell the deep, wood-fire scent that always clings to Sherlock's skin. If he could hear, he would hear the deep, wood-fire sound of Sherlock's voice, rumbling, "All right. It's all right."  
  
He feels a weight settle in beside him. A moment of resistance, pride, always, before he shuffles back into welcome heat and safety and comfort. Feels the warmth of Sherlock's back. Feels the beat of Sherlock's heart, slow and steady against the rabbit-quick pounding of his own. Feels the gentle press of Sherlock's shoulders as he breathes: Inhale, two...three.... Exhale...four...five...six. Feels the shudders in his own body as he struggles to match it.  
  
Slowly, so slowly, he begins to settle. Lifts up onto one elbow and twists, reaching across Sherlock to the nightstand to pull a tissue from the box which is shamefully near to empty. Uses it. Tosses it into the bin which is shamefully near to full. Trails a hand up Sherlock's forearm, bicep, shoulder, and squeezes. He means: _Thank you. Thank you._  
  
Sherlock murmurs, "Any time." He means: _Every time._ He means: _Even when I'm bored. Even when it ruins the experiment I've got running. Even when we're on a case. Even if it never stops._  
  
John remembers the nights after Sherlock, but before Mary. He remembers a time when the relentless flatline blocking his hearing was instead a tremulous voice against ear, when Mary's body in the hospital bed was Sherlock's blood on the pavement. He remembers when he would reach not for the tissue box, but the loaded Browning on his nightstand. He remembers feeling as though it would never end.  
  
He remembers the first time he was able to sleep through the night.  
  
It always seems to hit him hardest at night. But no night lasts forever. And he is no longer alone in the dark.  
  
He rubs his hand over Sherlock's shoulder once more, squeezes. Leaves it there. Settles back down, struggling for a moment with the duvet until it covers them both. Closes his eyes and nestles his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades. He means: _I love you. I'll be all right._  
  
Sherlock reaches up and squeezes his hand once, gently. Presses back, closer. He means: _I love you, too. You'll be all right._


End file.
